


Classical

by A_Starry_Night



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, but let's tag it anyway, not technically based off the show, this is a comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Starry_Night/pseuds/A_Starry_Night
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley sit and watch Disney's Fantasia together. Naturally, it goes as well as you'd think.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Classical

"What the he-- heav-- Somebody is that, angel?"

Crowley's disgusted voice drew Aziraphale's attention away from his latest book to find the demon had let himself into his bookshop-- without permission, as always. He straightened in his seat, noting with dismay that his biscuit had gone moldy before he'd had a chance to eat it. "Milton's Paradise Lost," he replied eagerly. "Not much for historical accuracy, mind you, but it's second edition and he was a most interesting--"

"Not the book, Aziraphale. _That_."

Crowley quite rudely pointed a finger across the open page, his attention still transfixed by-- _oh_.

"Disney's Fantasia." He refused to allow his voice to waver or his face to flush. What he watched in the privacy of his own bookshop was his business, thank you very much. "And may I remind you, dear boy, that you told me I needed to familiarize myself with today's entertainment--"

"Yeah, and when I got you that telly I thought you'd end up watching something _recent_! You're always at least fifty years behind the times, Aziraphale; didn't that come out in the 1940s?"

"I... really wouldn't know," Aziraphale said lamely, willing his ears not to flush (or Heaven to open up and smite him for the blatant lie.) "The music is quite lovely, though."

"And over three hundred years out of date," Crowley retorted snidely. He didn't seem able to look away from the screen. "Are those hippos wearing tutus?" His tone was distinctly horrified.

Aziraphale winced and glanced at the screen himself-- but only for a second. He returned his attention stubbornly to his book. "It would appear so. Don't you have places to be, my dear? Any of your wiles to dispense that I would need to thwart later?"

"No, I do not," the demon stated, and he promptly sat in the chair opposite Aziraphale's (without permission, again) never once looking at his friend. 

The angel ground his teeth, already knowing the finale of the film and what it was specifically about. "You haven't seen this before, then, Crowley?"

"You know Down Below had me in Germany at that time, angel. Sorry to say that though Hitler loved Snow White and the Seven Dwarves he didn't exactly have time to show any Disney films then."

"Well, I'm sure you don’t really want to watch a movie made way back when so I can always turn off and we can go to the park—”

Wrong move. Crowley was a demon, after all—he’d practically invented the art of distraction, although Aziraphale very nearly had him beat in the art of wheedling. It also didn’t help that they’d known each other for the past six thousand years. A sly tilt to Crowley’s mouth let the angel know he had fooled no one. “No, angel,” he said slowly, “I do believe I’ll stay right here.”

Milton was looking more and more lovely by the minute. He tried to focus on the inaccuracies of the text (some of which were horribly atrocious while others were outrageously mundane), but the music of the film proved a rather daunting soundtrack to his book. Crowley, of course, kept up a steady stream of commentary about what was happening on screen, so it was impossible to miss how much closer to the end of the film they were nearing.

“That was absolutely the wrong note played there, they never played it that way… oh, dancing centaurs, everybody loves them. Oh, bless, they still think dinosaurs were real… and there we go with Beethoven again—you know the only reason he didn’t go after his naysayers was because he couldn’t hear them…”

And then the screen darkened to the film’s final song introduction, and Crowley’s commentary ended almost mid-word. Aziraphale gave up Paradise Lost as a lost cause and straightened in his seat, absentmindedly brushing off the layer of dust that had gathered on his shoulders. He had no need to watch the coming number himself but he didn’t want to guess what Crowley’s reaction was going to be. He had just miracled up a pot of tea for the two of them, and was taking his first sip, when Crowley’s indignant voice rang out:

“Hags do _not_ have tits like that!”

Aziraphale choked as he inhaled sharply and then spluttered and coughed trying to rid his windpipe of the tea. Good Somebody, he did not want to have to explain why he needed a new body because he drowned from drinking tea! (Those Upstairs had absolutely no taste when it came to drinks, so they wouldn’t understand why he was indulging in the first place.) Crowley paid no mind to Aziraphale’s desperate hacking, all of his attention instead focused on the screen as animated demons and ghosts danced for the devil, his eyebrows inching farther and farther up to his hairline as they did so.

When Aziraphale finally calmed himself sufficiently and straightened out the mess of tea he had accidentally spilled, the song was nearing its end and the English version of Ave Maria was beginning. Wincing as though it pained him, Crowley waved a hand and the television shut off.

“My dear…”

“That—I… that—that was just offensive, Aziraphale! What do these humans take us for, some red-skinned bug-eyed creatures? That’s like saying that Lucifer has that long pointed tail today’s society depicts him with! And we definitely don’t have dances Down There!”

“Actually, I don’t believe that that was meant to be Lucifer, Crowley. The original opera this was based off was of a Slavic deity known as Chernobog, and the witches’ sabbath as they attended him. Disney merely added the day’s perception with the film.”

“Hmph.” Crowley crossed his arms and sulked back in his seat, scowling. “Didn’t need to make ‘em all so damned ugly, though.”

A prick of humor had Aziraphale smile mischievously. “’If faint suspicion of your existence begins to arise in his mind, suggest to him a picture of something in red tights—‘”

Crowley spun around so fast in his seat Aziraphale was sure he heard vertebrate crack. “Don’t you dare, angel! That’s completely unfair, and- and- and _cheating_!”

“Oh, but it was ever so helpful having such an insight into Hell’s bureaucracy—or should I say Lowerarchy—”

“Screwtape never forgave me for that. I can’t help it if his letters to Wormwood were so easily nicked!”

Aziraphale’s small grin widened to a full-fledged smile. “Oh, but you had just as much of a hand helping that little mental image along, my dear.”

“ _Noooo_ ,” Crowley moaned, burying his face in his hands. There was no disputing it, though, which only made it funnier. Aziraphale outright laughed.

“I just want to know one thing, Crowley, and then you can sulk as much as you like.”

One vertical-slitted pupil peered out. “What?”

Aziraphale handed him a cup of tea and then primly sat down beside him. He waited until Crowley was taking a sip to ask, “So how _do_ you know a hag’s tits don’t look like that?”

**Author's Note:**

> The quote and reference to Screwtape is CS Lewis's novel 'The Screwtape Letters', which I've only just recently finished and really liked.
> 
> This entire fic was started because of the line 'hags do not have tits like that!' when I was watching Night on Bald Mountain myself, and it popped into my head. You're welcome.


End file.
